I’m behind

First of all, the column dropped on Friday. It’s not my fave, which is probably why I was uninspired to send the normal reminder. Oh well . . . check it out if the mood strikes.

Right now I’m sitting in a cafe on the very near west side that has free WiFi, which is essential. There’s a body odor emanating from somewhere, although I can’t narrow it down. Who’s the funky culprit? I really don’t want to know. I’d just love it if he’d do the world a favor and add soap to his grocery list.

This morning I worked out as a guest at the David Barton Gym. It is seriously the darkest gym I’ve ever been to. The premise is that it’s supposed to be cool and kind of trendy, but I literally can’t see a goddamned thing no matter which room I’m in. The weight area is literally lit like a nightclub, and the locker room? If I’d mistakenly brought one brown shoe and one black, I wouldn’t know the difference until I walked outside. The steam room is lit with tiny spots that emerge from the floor. I almost sat on someone.

There were these two blondes who might’ve been 30 (but were probably about 24, given the way those girls tend to show their age) in my locker bay — and by the way, you have to bring your own lock — and I, trying to be friendly, made a mention of how dark it is. They glared at me and said nothing. They’ve made an enemy. It became my mission to glare at them wherever I saw them in the gym. I know, I’m spiteful and punitive, but seriously . . . fuck them.

I actually chuckled visibly when I saw one of the beeyatches actually working out in Ugg boots. UGG BOOTS? For a workout? No wonder she has a sour look on her face. She’s so fashion-challenged that it’s ridiculous. EVERYONE knows that the de rigeur footwear fashion statement in the gym is a cute pair of Pumas (which I wasn’t wearing), or high-tech cross-trainers (which I WAS wearing).

When I returned to the locker room, they were finished with their muk-a-luk impeded workouts, and I said a terse “excuse me” as I passed them in the locker area.

On another note, I’m thinking that the entertainment media needs a new focal point. Why else would they care that Brad didn’t tell Jennifer that Angelina is pregnant? If my marriage crumbled in front of the entire world, and my estranged husband was dating Angelina Jolie, the hell if I’d want him to call me to tell me that she’s pregnant.

What would be the point? To say “Gee, honey, I know that you’ve suffered greatly because of the fact that I can’t keep it in my pants, but now — to add insult to injury — I’ve gone and knocked her up. Just thought I’d be considerate and tell you before the Enquirer gets ahold of it.”

Jeez.